properly
by kathleenfergie
Summary: A miracle was the Doctor's body, a miracle that wars would be fought over and people would risk their lives to save. Let's do this properly, he'd said to them all and he allowed the tears to come as he lit the match, staring into the tiny flame before dropping it into the old boat, the man's body burning a bright fiery red. The Impossible Astronaut Oneshot.


Alright, so this is a rewrite/expansion of a drabble from some time ago. It's set in The Impossible Astronaut after the Doctor's been shot, and it's a Rory oneshot. Hope you enjoy.

BBC owns it all.

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The old man set the can of gasoline in front of the trio, and he knew at that moment what had to be done, what the gasoline meant.

A miracle was the Doctor's body, a miracle that wars would be fought over and people would risk their lives to save. He knew that first hand and he understood it all a lot more than either of the women standing next to him. Maybe, he thought, that it was his Centurion days that taught him what an honourable burial was for a soldier, no matter his title, but he looked down at the Doctor's body and there was a feeling of responsibility welling inside him.

His wife sobbed, grabbing at her best friend's chest, and he found himself not being able to handle the sight. In a moment of reflection he wondered if that's what she had done all the different times she'd seen him die. He shooed the thought from his mind.

He stared at the red can of gasoline - red like the fires that would be lit for this man - instead of looking at the still face of someone he'd finally accepted as an ally and a friend. The blue box had become his estranged home, and now he thought of it as an empty shell. He wondered if she was still humming or if she had been silenced by his death.

When he tore his eyes away from the haunting can, he caught a glimpse of a lonely boat down the shore. It was a thin canoe with no oars, and it seemed to just wait there in the sand.

Let's do this properly, he'd said to them all, the looks of confusion reflecting off the glimmering lake.

His wife stood there numbly by the body, her face lit by the sunset she stared blankly into, as he trekked over to the boat and waded it closer to the small group.

The Doctor's funeral barge was old, like the Timelord himself, and he found it fitting.

The boat's stability was questioned by his wife and friend, but it would not sink, he had learned. It would not sink until the flames devoured it.

He steadied the boat in a patch of sand and came to stand in front of his wife, placing a hand on her shoulder. She only looked at him with dead eyes, and then focused back on the low sun. He knew she was alive, could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin flannel of her shirt, but he understood that she'd rather be anything but living at this moment. He gently kissed her forehead before turning away to begin his work.

A small sob escaped her as he gently picked up the body, and he looked pleadingly at the Doctor's mysterious companion, who quickly enveloped the younger woman in her arms. She nodded, a lone tear flowing down her face as fluidly as her name, and she cried a silent goodbye for the man in his arms.

The Doctor was heavier than he looked, and he liked to think that all those years, all those memories, were what weighed him down, and so he fought not to fumble as he carried him a few steps toward his resting place. He was strong for them because he found himself not being able to be anything but.

He placed the Doctor's body in the boat carefully, and he forgot himself for a moment, smoothing the man's hair out of his eyes, a look he'd seen often when the man was alive. He was laid out simply - no flowers, no coins over his eyes or a cloth in his mouth. Just his tweed suit and the bow tie, a staple of his wardrobe, and it seemed almost right, for the few seconds that he allowed himself to stare at the dead man.

Taking the fiery red can, he poured the gasoline until there was a thick pool of it around the Doctor, but he did not fill it so that it was covering his face. He would not let the man drown, even in death.

The man with the fourth envelope, the one who'd given them the gasoline, had left him a pack of matches, handing them over with a small amount of words. They were so much alike, he'd realized later. They both had the weathered look of a soldier, and so he had taken the matches without question. He was unlike his wife, who had screamed and raged for answers. He did not point a gun, he only gritted his teeth and accepted what was to come.

With the matchbook in his breast pocket, he walked the boat out into the water, the cool liquid shocking him and a wave of realization of what was actually happening overtook him. He looked back at the beach where the two stood and he only allowed himself a moment to feel their pain. It crippled him as he removed only one match from the pack of twelve, careful not to slip and drop it into the water.

Properly, he'd said to them.

He allowed the tears to come as he lit the match, staring into the tiny flame before dropping it into the old boat. He pushed what he liked to call the funeral barge away from him, and as it floated away, he succumbed to the gnawing feeling inside.

He stood knee deep in the water, back turned to his wife and friend, and he cried for a few small moments.

Knee deep in the water, with his back turned to his wife and friend, he cried for the man in the blue box, so unlike what a soldier is supposed to do. He didn't care.

Properly, his mind told him.

_Properly._


End file.
